Prima Donna
by passionate fire
Summary: In which Blink is a a crazy fashion designer, and Mush is....well...er...you're just going to have to see for yourself! Rated T for language, gay jokes, and drag queens. And no, we're not talking about Medda.
1. Insert Funny Chapter Name here

_Disclaimer: ...I'm, like, seriously running out of funny ideas for disclaimers. It's becoming pathetic. All you'se gotta know is that I don't own Newsies, though. Capishe?_

_A/N: So here it is guys and gals, my ::new:: story. w00t. After a like three months hiatus, I'm back, rearing and ready to go. I'm incredibly excited for Prima Donna, I've got all these great ideas and I'm just so happy!!!! It's the holidays, and I'm full of joy. Or something to that effect._

_First, before we start, I have to clear a few things up. __One--THIS IS NOT A SLASH FICTION. That is, the male characters aren't going to end up with each other at the end. They aren't going to end up with any females, either. It's going to HAVE lots of sexual-gay jokes…you'll be able to tell what this is about by the first sentence._

_T__wo—This is a parody of The Phantom of The Opera, but it's not going to follow the story line strictly. I've got this huge intricate plot worked out, and I think it's going to turn out to actually be able to take place in NewsieVerse. I thnik that it takes place two years before the strike--1897. So not completely AU. _

_Third—there is no third thing, I forgot it. Silly me. __Anyhoodles---enjoy the fic!!! And don't forget to review!!!

* * *

__trans·ves·tite:: _someone (usually a man) who adopts the dress or manner or sexual role of the opposite sex for sexual pleasure. Noun. - - - -

* * *

And _that_, dear friends, is exactly what Aaron was. A transvestite. It didn't matter what you called him—a drag queen, a he-she, a man-woman, or Just Plain Confused—a transvestite was what he really boiled down to. He was literally a man (well, a boy) who dressed up as a person of the female gender.

Aaron wondered what his parents would have thought of him, Mr. Aaron Meyers, now called Erin Daae, getting up in dresses and generally making an ass of himself. They had been dead for seven-eight years, and he could not picture them being none too pleased with his situation. In fact, he wasn't that joyful about it either, but Aaron didn't really have a choice at this point.

He stared at himself in the mirror, pointing out his flaws to himself just like the woman he pretended to be. His nose was too pointy, his fingers were _huge, _and to top it all off, he needed a shave. Badly. Aaron ran his tongue over his upper lip, feeling the hairy bristle. He shivered—he didn't like the feeling _at all, _but there was nothing he could do about it now. In five minutes he was scheduled for a rehearsal and he simply couldn't risk it. Shaving would have to wait.

"Hmmm," he murmured. Aaron pulled his dress a little bit tighter, feeling the fruits that made up his fake chest ride up. He pushed the oranges down, blushing, though no one could see him. Aaron was paranoid like that. But hell, so would you, if you lived in secret fear people would find out your true (male) identity.

Though it was unheard of at this point (and would be for several more years), Aaron's life belonged to someone in a James Bond Novel. Or else a very strange musical about sweet transvestites from transsexual Transylvania. Or _something._ _Girls don't know how lucky they have it,_ thought Aaron.

But his thoughts were interrupted as someone banged loudly at the dressing room door. It was Toby, the clown. "Miss Daae?"

"Yeah?" Aaron-Erin replied, his voice deep. He cleared his throat quickly. "I mean, uh, yes?"

"It's time foah rehearsal, Miss Daae," announced Toby. " An' Medda wants ya ta meet the new owner. It's a kid named Francis Sullivan."

Aaron started, running a hand through his brown curly wig in surprise. He'd completely forgotten Irving Hall had been for sale! Now, instead of belonging to Fat Max Cohen, the original owner, some guy name Francis Sullivan (where had he _heard_ that name before?) had bought it! Irving Hall could become completely different!

What if this "Sullivan" character decided to turn Irving Hall into a strip club instead of a respectable Vaudeville Theater? What if he made it a place for hookers and drunks? What if he ruined the place, and more importantly, the people inside it?

Worse, what if he was smarter than Fat Max and discovered Aaron-Erin's girl-secret?

"Miss Daae? Ya okay?"

"Sure, Toby," Aaron composed himself. Surely Sullivan couldn't be _that _bad! "I'll be right out."

"Okay! From ze top, everybody!" Medda, the (fake) Swedish Meadow Lark announced. "Girls, get in form for your kick line, please!"

Aaron scurried into place on stage, barely making it in time as the tubas began to play a cheery tune. He put on a toothy grin for show purposes only and then, with the rest of the group, began to perform a dance move known in some circles as the "can-can".

"Good! Good!" cried Medda, as all the girls (and Aaron) displayed a perfect in-succession kick. "Vonderful!"

She waltzed onstage, beaming happily as the girls (and Aaron) ended their dance and leaped up to her side, ready to perform the next song.

"Brilliant, girls, that'll be a kicker!" Medda said, dropping the accent completely. "Erin, are you ready for "Bananas?"

Aaron nodded. Medda had decided to give him a solo for one of the songs, on account of how he backflipped so beautifully. He hadn't wanted it, of course, but she had insisted.

And he had complied, because Medda was rather scary when she was angry.

But before Medda, The Swedish Meadow Lark, could continue, the front door to the theater swung open. It hit the wall with a defying-gravity smack! and as everybody in the theater jumped, a young man strolled in. He was accompanied by twenty some-odd people, who were his butlers, his hairdressers, his carriage drivers, his maids, his gardeners, his chefs, his shoe-shiners, his butt-wipers, and his clothes-putter-onners. Also, his small dog, from which dangled a collar. The collar read "Bruiser".

Well, actually, no. I'm kidding about that.

Only an older man, presumably his father, accompanied him. But his father did hold a small dog named Bruiser.

"Hello?" The young man asked politely. He had a slight British twinge in his accent. "Am I interrupting your rehearsal?"

"No, Mister Sullivan," Medda said warmly. "You're fine. But…" she turned around to Aaron. Aaron-Erin was a deathly white color, as if he had seen a ghost. And maybe he had. "Erin, darling? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Miss Medda," replied Aaron faintly.

He wasn't really, though, not at all.

* * *

_flashback_

_flashback_

_flashback, goddamit!!!_

_…_

_wait, sorry. I think the flashback's gone all screwy, wait a sec_

_…_

_…there, I think I got it_

_flashback_

"_Aaron!" His mother called, raising her voice so the seven year old could hear her. "Come meet our new neighbors!"_

_Aaron, who was handling a small boat, set it down quickly. He leapt out of his huge room and raced down the gold-studded banisters, pulling up his knickers as he went. He couldn't wait to meet the Sullivans. They had just moved in, and there was a boy just around his age in the family. Aaron was excited._

_He skidded down the long hall, almost tripping as he rushed to the living room. It was ungentlemanly to do such a thing, but for a seven year old, being a gentleman was not a priority._

"_Finally," Aaron's mother said, exasperated, as he finally entered the living room. "Aaron, I'd like you to meet Mister Tomas and Mister Frankie Sullivan."_

_Aaron held out a hand to the father and son, smiling gently. The older man shook hard, with a steady, firm grip. The younger boy grinned, spat in his palm, and held his own hand out to Aaron._

'_Frankie!" Mister Sullivan exclaimed._

_Aaron grinned back and repeated the gesture._

"_Aaron!" scolded his mother._

_But for the two boys, a friendship had been made already…_

_end flashback

* * *

_

"Miss? Are you alright?"

"Wha?" Aaron said intelligently, staring into the face of his former best friend, Mister Frankie Sullivan. He shook his head to clear it. "I mean, uh, yes. I'm great."

_Geez, I hate flashbacks, _he thought. _It makes the world go all fuzzy black and white._

Frankie smiled, and then frowned, like he was trying to figure out something. And maybe he was.

"Do I know you from somewhere, Miss?" he asked politely. "You look familiar. Like an old lady-friend, or something."

"No-o-o-o-o-o-o," Aaron lied through his teeth. "I've never seen you—"

Aaron was cut off by a shriek from one of the stage-girls on his right. He swiveled his head and watched with interest as she pranced around the stage, pointing at an off-white object floating to the ground. It appeared to have just randomly floated there by itself.

It was an envelope.

"It's a letter! It's a letter!" screamed the girl, whose name was Mary-Sue. "A letter from above! It must be a sign from God!"

"Mary Sue, you're fulla hot air," Medda said calmly, strolling over to the letter. "It ain't from God."

"Who's it from, then?" asked the older man. It was the first time Aaron had heard him speak since he was very little.

"It's from…" Medda started, pausing dramatically. If it were night out, lightning would have flashed. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

"Who?" Frankie asked, his handsome face confused.

"Ayah," said Medda, slipping back into her theater accent again. "Ze Phantom lives at this very theater, all by himself with no one around. He is ze ghost of ze facility but he is very real, yes indeed, for he makes odd things happen and un-happen."

_Un-happen? _Aaron thought.

"Ve do not flush him out, for he is useful to Irving, oh, yes. Ze phantom, you see," again she paused. "Designs clothes. He is a fashion designer. A very good one, too. He made my dress."

Medda smoothed out her dress, which was frilly and had lots of poufs. It was a nauseating color of pink, and came with a purple hat that clashed horribly. It was her favorite dress, but it made everyone else practically colorblind.

"I…see," said Francis, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, so you see, we need him. But he comes with a price, sometimes…"

At this statement, Medda ripped open the envelope. She gazed at it for a moment, and then held it out for all (Aaron, Francis, and Thomas) to read.

"Deer Gentlemen, (the letter said)

i habe been informed that u have bought my thaeter from Max and i just wanted 2 tell u that i require at last 100 dollars so dat I may contiune my woik. if you do not do this, bad things well happen. They well happen badly.

From

The Phantom"

"Hasn't got much education, has he?" asked the older man, with his super-spiffy English accent.

"We think he's a street rat from Manhattan," Medda answered proudly. "Either way, it draws crowds."

"Erm…" Frankie looked over at his father.

"Right," coughed Thomas Sullivan III. "Well, uh, I've gotta be going, ma'am. I don't want to miss my ship to Australia."

"You're going to Australia?" inquired Medda. "Why?"

Sullivan shifted, uncomfortable. "No reason. Just, you know, to get some sun and a nice tan."

…. It was December.

But before anyone in the theater could begin to ponder the atrocity of this statement, the man flounced away, still carrying the dog. He waved at his son, giving a cheery little grin, before walking out the front door and disappearing from sight. Aaron could hear the clip clopping of horses as the man's carriage rolled away, never to be seen again.

Frankie, apparently used to this, rolled his eyes. He grabbed Aaron-Erin's hand and kissed it, ever the gentleman. "You look _so _familiar."

Aaron went red. "Like your girlfriend?"

"Only when you blush—" Frankie grinned, causing Aaron to go even redder. "But I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else…"

"Um," stuttered Aaron. He was _not _comfortable with this at all…especially since, you know, he had the problem of the whole "male-gender thing that no one knew about."

"A-hem," coughed Medda, saving Aaron from embarrassment. "Erin, honey, your song?"

"Right!" Aaron said loudly. "My _song!"_

"Your _song? _Do you sing?" Frankie looked too curious for his own good.

"She dances, actually," Medda was curt. "Now clear out so we can rehearse!"

"Right, ma'am," The young man apologized. "I'll just…sit in the audience and watch."

"I'll see _you _later," he told Aaron. Aaron shuddered inwardly. The last thing he wanted was a boy-friend.

But Aaron had to forget about that, for the time being. It was time to rehearse his number. The song that was going to (hopefully not) be his big break—the one where he would show off his unladylike back flips for the first time. The huge one, _and _it would probably be the highlight of the performance. Aaron was nervous.

The other girls cleared the stage, hiding behind the curtains to watch. It was just a song with Aaron and Medda—she was going to sing, and he was going to dance. To perform acrobatic stunts, specifically.

Aaron had no idea why Medda wanted back flips to an obnoxious song such as 'Yes, We Have No Bananas', and he was not sure he wanted to know. Perhaps it was for personal reasons.

"_Five, six, seven eight!" _Medda shouted, and the music began. Aaron backed up a few steps, and did a beautiful round-off for show as the Swedish Meadow Lark opened her mouth and began to sing.

"Yes! We have no bananas!" Medda trilled. "We have no banana to-day!"

Strangely, Aaron's eyes searched for Frankie's in the crowd. The rich young man couldn't take his eyes off him as Aaron shook and shimmed around the stage.

The (unwilling) transvestite's heart sank. This was not going to end well.

* * *

_**A/N:….sooo……? Was it bad? Good? Life Changing? **_


	2. Squeezing Lemons

DUDE! I GOT REVEIWS!

::high fives to reviewers::

I'd leave you all shoutouts…but I'm, like, really, really, REALLY tired, and I am far too lazy to really actually do anything. Dang school, making me all worn out. Grrr.

So yeah, don't blame me. Sorry! XD

But the reviews _are _appreciated. And I love them.

Muchly. So, yeah, ONWARD TO CHAPTER TWO!!

* * *

Mary Sue sidled up to Aaron-Erin after the rehearsal was over.

"How do you know Mister Sullivan?" she asked breathily, batting her eyelashes. "He's _so _handsome."

Aaron sort of stared at her. He could almost hear crickets chirping as the other dancer smiled at him like a hyperactive puppy. "

Uh…he's an old friend of mine," the transvestite finished lamely. "

Oh!" Mary Sue's brilliant blue eyes widened. "Were you childhood _sweethearts_?"

Aaron figured it wouldn't do any harm to lie and say yes. Mary Sue wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, anyway, and it would probably keep up his girl façade quite well. The last thing he wanted was for the other girls to go around saying that he was into women.

Not that he _wasn't _into women, because he was. He liked boobs and butts and long hair and whatnot. A lot.

But he was posing as a chick, and that presented problems.

"…sure, I guess you could say that."

After _this _little statement, Aaron thought Mary Sue was going to burst from excitement.

"He must be in _love _with you, Erin!" Mary Sue squealed. Then she stopped, looking kind of confused. "But I don't understand. You're not even that good looking."

It was a good thing Aaron wasn't really a woman, because that would have hurt him deeply had he been female. But he wasn't, so it didn't.

"…I mean," she continued, glancing at Aaron's tousled wig and rumpled skirt. He felt rather exposed. "It's nothing we can't fix…but no offense, Erin, darling, you sometimes really and truly do look like a _man."_

Maybe Mary Sue wasn't all that bright, but she sure was observant. Aaron-Erin made a mental note to stay far, far, far,_ far_ away from her.

But before he could escape her evil clutches, the annoying (and oddly perfect?) girl grabbed Aaron by the wrist and dragged the transvestite down off the stage. She got him down the white steps, Aaron struggling, and onto one of the chairs in the audience.

It must be noted that a certain Francis Sullivan was seated not too far away.

- - - - -

Mary Sue sat Aaron down, and then grabbed a random and oddly convenient mirror and comb from the next table over. Aaron's brown eyes widened considerably. He knew what was coming now.

"Erin, now that we're friends," Mary Sue began, lifting up the comb as Aaron squirmed in fear. "I've decided to make you my new project."

Aaron attempted to get up, but the crazy dame pushed him down again.

"You _really _don't have to do that, Mary Sue."

"I know!" she chuckled. "That's what makes me so nice!"

Aaron whimpered and raised a hand to his 'hair'. If Mary Sue even touched his wig with the wide-toothed comb, the curly mop would surely come right out of his scalp!

He would be, to put it bluntly, _screwed_.

_And _the goddamn wig would be frizzy.

But _then! _Medda, bless her soul, interrupted the disappointed Mary-Sue.

"Hey, Erin, we need you for costume fitting. C'mon."

Aaron practically skipped away.

After this pointless (and rather terrible) attempt at humor and Broadway references, Medda took Aaron back to the costume room. The costume room was behind the stage, as most costume rooms ought to be, and contained…costumes, believe it or not. Lots of them.

Aaron had never been in this sacred place, for it was out-of-bounds for lowly dancers like him. Medda never allowed _anyone _in there. _Ever._ She always kept it locked and held the key around her neck on a chain at all times. The Meadowlark yelled whenever someone walked _past _the Costume Room.

It was for reasons Aaron never knew.

And he never wanted to know, either. He figured that it was for some secret reason, something terrible and inhumane. Perhaps she hid a disfigured child in there, or maybe a dead body.

In reality, Medda a victim of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. But Aaron didn't know that.

- - - - - -

He stared wonderingly around the small rose-colored room. There were racks of huge, frilly dresses, cloaks and pants and suspenders, shoes scattered throughout the floor, wigs and canes, hanging off of boxes. A large, ornate mirror stood in the center of the place, a huge purple thing that glimmered in the light. The room was a costume-lover's _dream._

Well, it _was _a room _for _costumes. So there you go. "

So, your dress," said Medda, looking over at Aaron-Erin with her horn-rimmed spectacles. She glanced down at a paper she held in her hands. "How do you feel about a bright orange skirt and top? And a fruit hat?"

_A Fruit Hat? _Thought Aaron. _Gee, I'm getting over my head here…_

"I don't know, Miss Medda," he answered truthfully. "You don't _know. _Girl, you don't know anything. Okay. That'll have to do. You'd look ravishing in a fruit hat, that Sullivan kid out there will love you. I think we have one…yeah, here…lemme check…"

Medda had a tendency to go off on run-on thought sentences.

Aaron watched as she rummaged around the room, tearing wrappers and other hats and God-Knew what else. The director was mumbling to herself. He caught snippets of her conversation, things like—

"Oh, no, that would look _dreadful _with her hair, that's terrible—oh! What's this?"

and

"—No, no, no, the boys would never go for that, we're gotta show more _cleavage—"_

and

"Well, --curse word--! We don't have any bright orange skirts! Not one! I suppose I'll have to ask the Phantom, dash it all!"

The phantom.

Wait—the phantom?

Yes. The phantom.

As you, dear readers, all know from the previous chapter, there was a Theater "Ghost" living in Irving that made clothes for Medda and all the dancers. A ghost that sent a letter to the Misters Sullivan demanding money, or else. A ghost that supposedly was just a kid from Manhattan and is a major character in our story of hope and woe.

You all know this.

Aaron, though, was a little slow on the uptake. In Chapter One, he had barely even heard the important conversations and plot details, and so had no idea that The Phantom designed clothes. He always thought a dame did it; the design was so good and fine. Ah, poor, naïve Aaron-Erin.

"The phantom?" he said, a little fearfully. "Will I have to see him?"

Medda stared. "No. Christ, kid, where have you been? The Phantom don't take our measurements, we give it to him and then he makes the clothes for us. A win-win situation."

"Oh, right. How could I have forgotten?" Aaron tried to cover up his mistake, not succeeding. "So silly of me."

Medda smiled gently. "Damn right it was silly."

Then, her expression turned as dark as a thunderstorm. "_Now get outta my dressing room!"_

Aaron turned on his shoe and ran. Which was awfully hard to do in high heels.

----------

Behind the grand, ornate, beautiful mirror, a young man stood, his face smooshed against the rear of the thing so he could listen. He had to be hunched over so he could hear and see what was being said through the small cracks, but it was worth it.

It was _so _worth it.

How often does one find one's object of sexual desire anyway?

The young man (now referred to as the Phantom from now on) was now sure this girl, the one with the dark curly hair and the humongous chest, was The One. The one he wanted. She was an aptitude of perfection, a specimen in the human world.

She was also despicably unladylike and looked sort of like a man, but that was okay because she had a nice ass.

The Phantom abandoned all thoughts of the Mayor's Daughter, from then and thereafter. There was a beautiful woman in the opera house (besides Medda, of course) and he was going to romance her into his bed. Quickly and efficiently, he was sure.

Dames _loved _the mysterious homicidal ghost thing. He knew from experience.

_There's gotta be some way, _he thought. _There's just gotta be!_

As the boy thought and thought and thought, an idea struck him and a grin slowly slid across his face. He began to softly cackle like a lunatic, waving his arms around like a preacher in a pulpit.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

**A/N: Ha, Blink's a pervert. But that's what we like about him, no? xD**

**-----**

**A/N: Don't you just hate it when there's an Author's Note in the middle of a story?**

**------**

After running away from Medda, our favorite transvestite character (Aaron, in case you were wondering) scurried to his dressing room to hide. He didn't want anyone to find him; he'd had too many close calls for one day. People usually didn't question his girl-ness, because who would expect a drag queen living right in the middle of Irving Hall?

That's right. No one.

Heh.

But Aaron's wish to be alone was not to be granted. He had barely been in his room five minutes before someone barged through the door like a big great lumbering elephant.

It was Jack—I mean, uh, Francis Sullivan.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said in his charming accent.

Aaron backed up, his heart rate speeding up several spots. "How did you, um, find my dressing room?"

"Mary Sue." The gentleman answered promptly. Aaron cursed.

"Look,' Francis scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, descending on Aaron like a rabid vulture. "I just wanted to—"

"Mister Sullivan," Aaron said at the same time. "I really don't think you—ah!"

This Ah! submitted by Aaron-Erin was a rather ungirlish Ah! In fact, it was almost manly, but Aaron had a very good reason for this particular scream that may or may not have revealed his boydom.

He had a very good reason, indeed.

I bet all of you would go Ah! too, if a guy who you just barely knew shoved you up against a wall and rammed his tongue down your throat.

I certainly would, though I would draw out the Ah! part. It would be more of an Aaaaaaah. Or perhaps an OoOOo.

But anyway.

Aaron felt the presence of fingers move up to his bosom area and attach itself to his chest area, groping, feeling, and squeezing. He hoped the lemon and orange (for that was what made up his fake woman area) wouldn't leak what with all the touching.

He tried to stop Frankie from touching him—he didn't really care for being so close to a guy, anyway—but before he could pull himself away, Francis let go of Aaron's mouth. It came out with a popping sound not unlike a plunger.

"Why're your boobs so hard?" Frankie asked, point-blank. "They don't feel normal."

_Oh, shit._

Aaron took a very big chance at this point. He felt himself blush as he yanked away from his captor and asked:

"Well, Frankie, have you ever felt a woman's chest before?"

The other young man's fertile blush told Aaron-Erin he had just hit the jackpot.

"You haven't?" The transvestite asked, amazed.

"I—"

Francis Sullivan's answer was interrupted, to his delight and Aaron's disappointment, by a large flour sack falling randomly out of the wall from the vent.

(and don't you dare go and review telling me there were no vents in 1897. Because if they had exit signs, (check out the High Times Hard Times scene, folks) they had vents. So there)

"What the—" Aaron mumbled. He picked up his skirts and hurried over to the bag, curiously. "A flour sack?"

Yes indeed, ladies and gents, a flour sack. But this was no ordinary sack. This sack…. carried…magic!

Kidding. Actually, it was an ordinary brown flour sack. It looked just the type you'd find at the grocery store, except for one very odd detail--

It was a picture of a man. More accurately, it was a picture of a hanging man, with a real rope around its neck

The man, Aaron had to say, was very badly drawn. Its eyes bulged out unnaturally, the ears were far too huge, the nose was crooked, and in fact had it not said in badly written letters "Sullivan" he would have had no idea who it was.

"Say, that's me!" Francis exclaimed, stating the obvious. "I'm being hung!"

"Well, aren't you a bright one?" Aaron mumbled.

Francis glared.

Aaron sighed.

And inside the vent, a certain Phantom snickered evilly.

* * *

Urg, I didn't really like this chapter. Oh, well. It's kinda slow, I know, but it'll get faster when Mush (who else is getting tired of me calling Mush Aaron?) meets the one and only Kid Blink. Teehee. And then there shall be plot twists and other such wonderful things in my story. So stay tuned!

::fade out::

::fade in::

Oh, and if there's not too much trouble…remember to review. They go great with thin mints. XD

Ta!

me


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